As The World Falls Down
by Elinde
Summary: In the middle of a campaign against Sauron it is easy to become wrapped up in your own troubles, but do so at your own peril.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: I'm baaack! Ish. And I'm finally feeling motivated to write again. If I disappear again blame schoolwork. Also if I got a blog again would any of you guys read it? I… think I might need one…

I'll keep these chapters as short or as long as they need; I prefer longer ones but I don't think I have the time at the moment (eg this chapter took over 2 hours O.o) and I'd rather publish right now: I feel I've been absent too long.

**Disclaimer: all canon characters, places and events belong to Tolkien. **

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><p>The usually sharp surroundings were blurred by the water in his eyes. Shed tears made tracks down his cheeks, white lines against the black dust and grime. His fellow soldiers were just moving shadows as he stumbled seemingly slowly but in actual fact with some speed through the camp. No one walked into him; they had all learnt to identify someone wandering with grief. His mind was elsewhere, replaying two events over and over again.<p>

"_You will look after him, won't you?"_

_A nervous smile, "I'll do my utmost."_

"_He means more than the world to me, and he's just a child. He shouldn't be here."_

"_None of us should be here." _

"_He doesn't know what he's volunteered for; he just followed me." _

"_I shan't let him leave my sight, gwador. I promise." _

Brothers didn't break promises to each other. His position was clear to him now; he had always been a breakwater, only befriended for times of need. He wondered if the hushed stories his 'gwador' told about his past were even true, or just fabricated to gain pity. He realised this he could stand, it was the fact that his family was not only involved but had paid the worst price. He thanked the Valar that Lianna hadn't come here to die too. But he didn't thank Manwë; his 'gwador' prayed to Manwë.

His feet took him to the tent where his loved one lay, alongside hundreds of others. And there were hundreds of tents. There weren't many healers here – there didn't need to be – but one nodded and led him past rows and rows of Men and Elves to the only person who mattered to him. He looked on the Elf's face, so young yet so learnèd. The near side of his face had been washed and the pale skin seemed to glow with a ghostly bliss. The other, like the hand folded in his chest so it was nearest his visitor, was red raw and still weeping. The clothes and hair down that side had burned away. His blissful expression was at odds with the violent manner in which he died.

No longer aware of his tears, the older Elf reached out a hand and brushed a lock of hair away from the good side of the young Elf's face. He had his mother's hair; deep chestnut brown with flashes of reddish auburn. His mother's forest green eyes, too, though they would never open again. Despite his injuries, the older Elf thought him beautiful, as he always had done. He brushed a finger against the dead Elf's still warm cheek and finally spoke, with a strangely composed tone.

"Novaer, Dannalas; ion-nín. My autumn leaf," then to the healer still by him, he said, "Gîl-nín bannen. Ardhon-nín no morn."

"Herdir; we have been ordered to bear your son back to Eryn Galen and bury him there, if this is in accordance with your wishes," the healer said, nervously.

"I will not suffer him to be buried here," Dannalas' father snapped, stepping away from his son as his temper finally got the better of him. "Who ordered this?"

"Aran-gín, herdir."

"He is a fine person indeed," he said. "Where is His Highness?"

The healer opened his mouth to say something, then thought the visitor just knew something he didn't. "I don't blame him for not responding to His Majesty. He is in his tent, herdir. And if I may say so you are doing a fine thing; I think he needs you now as much as you need him."

Mal intent bubbled in the visitor's brain so the subtleties of what the healer said were lost to him. He bowed, vowing to return to his son ere long, and left. This time his steps were purposeful. Once again he was avoided.

He found the tent empty save one. It wasn't as grand as the other two royal tents in the camp. The bed wasn't ridiculously fancy and the comfortable chair had been brought not for relaxing but for long hours poring over maps. There were no tapestries on what passed for walls and the supports wracked in the winds.

There was no sign of Oropher.

Thranduil stood with his back to the entrance. He was running his hands along something but span round when he heard approaching footsteps. An orc scimitar has restyled his hair and relieved him of the point of his ear in the process. But that wasn't why only the shadow of a smile danced across his face as he saw who it was.

The ten was dark and the tears in his eyes prevented the raven-haired Elf from seeing the tear tracks down the Sinda's face or the staff in his hands. All he saw was the person who had promised to bring his son back and failed.

"You promised me," the words were a hiss, "you promised me he'd still be alive now. But you ran, didn't you? You didn't care, you just ran and left my poor Dannalas to fend for himself. You knew he'd die. He died for you. No one treats my family like that, you gwandagnir!" Thranduil read the intent in his friend's eyes, giving enough time for his eyes to widen in fear and for him to whisper 'aldan' before blood sprayed from his nose and he was thrown backwards onto his back. The staff flew out of his hands and clattered on the baked ground behind him.

"Daro!" He yelled, propping himself up on his elbow and holding out his hand. "You hab do sdop!" His raised hand was knocked downwards and his elbow jarred on the hard ground. "Lasdo an ním!"

"I will never listen to you again." A heel stamped on a foot. "Erio a maetho!"

Thranduil scrambled to his feet and pressed a hand against his bleeding nose, "Im nod fightin' you!"

"Taking the moral high ground?" His assailant snapped.

"Baw!"

"Or are you just a coward?"

Thranduil launched himself at him, grabbing his collar and pushing him back several feet. "Shud up for a sec'nd and lisden do me!"

The next moment the Sinda was flying through the air. He came back to earth hard. The Sylvan, long out of control, strode over to him and kicked him in the ribs. Though the cracking sound was not part of the plan. Thranduil, dazed, curled up into a ball as best he could and the Sylvan strode out.

He was livid. He has expected the act of violence to make him feel better but in fact it made him feel worse. Before he left he'd caught a glimpse of his friend's confused and pained expression. Now he hated both Thranduil and himself. As he made his way through the madding crowds he willed Oropher to burst through them in a fit of rage and treat him like he had just treated Thranduil, but Oropher never came.

The camp was in a state of disorganised chaos. It was only a few hours after the end of the battle and the dead and the wounded were still being brought in. So nobody noticed his odd behaviour, save one.

Elrond, hands full of bandages (torn up clothes; the bandages had run out months ago) and ointments, and Erestor, walking with a bad limp and one arm in a sling but still carrying both his and Elrond's sword for him so the healer could have both hands free, spied the Sylvan several yards away and approached him. Elrond immediately recognised the expression on his face and correctly guessed who and what had happened. He ignored the challenging glare thrown his way and pulled himself up to his full height.

"Where is he, Galion?"

"I have not the pleasure of understanding you, herdir."

Elrond grabbed the hand that had broken Thranduil's nose and held it in Galion's line of sight. There was blood on the knuckles. "Don't play the innocent with me, _herdir_, you can't deceive a liar."

"You're a liar?" Galion's eyes glinted strangely. The mix of anger and guilt made him capable of anything.

"It's a set expression. In plain speech I have done the same as you before so where is he?"

"Oropher's tent," Galion said, flatly. Elrond let go of his hand and was about to walk on when Galion added, "I was justified. I entrusted my son to him and he let him die, no doubt with a smile on his face. And no doubt he's already being mollycoddled by the king as I speak."

Elrond and Erestor exchanged glances. "Show him," Elrond told Erestor. Erestor nodded, handed the Half-Elf his sword and beckoned to Galion to follow him. The Sylvan did; he had nothing better to do. He couldn't face seeing his son again so soon.

They walked for the most part in silence, though after a while Erestor said, "I am truly sorry for your loss. Too much has been sacrificed already in this war – far too much."

"Rim henniad," Galion replied, "you are the first person to say that who wasn't obliged to do so. Thranduil said nothing; all he said was 'listen to me'. I've listened to him far too much; why should I listen to him? He doesn't know what it feels like to lose someone. He didn't even have the dignity to fight me properly."

"You should have listened to him," Erestor said, quietly.

The advisor led the butler into a tent and past rows and rows of people. Galion streamed them out; it wasn't that they didn't matter but there was more than enough death here to drive even the sanest person mad.

As they neared the end of the tent, the bodies gave way to bare ground and Galion wondered when Erestor would stop, but he led him on into the space and right to the end. Looking round Erestor's broad shoulders Galion saw a figure laid out on a table, eyes still open and hands folded on sword hilt.

Then he realised who it was and time stopped.

"Is… is he really dead?" Galion asked in a daze.

"Yes," Erestor replied, equally softly, "he's really dead. He was in a small group that got separated. He was dead when we got to him. He died in his son's arms."

"I wasn't there for Dannalas," Galion murmured, taking in the injuries. The gaping wound in the chest was the obvious cause of death. "It's still bleeding, too," Galion choked.

Though Erestor had already wept, he felt tears prick his eyes again, "He's still warm. He can't have died more than four hours ago. So close to the end of the battle."

Galion's gaze drifted down his back to his legs, "Why is he twisted like that?"

"It's the best we can do," Erestor whispered. The smile that played on his lips was as far from happiness as it is possible to be, "his back's broken… in two places. Had he survived he would never have walked again."

All Galion's tears had been spilt on his son, but his lower lip quivered as he looked at the Sinda's face again. Oropher's eyes, for so long so piercing and full of life, stared unseeingly at the canvas above him.

"This isn't happening."

Erestor shifted both uncomfortably and sympathetically beside him but Galion paid him no heed. He was too busy replaying his actions of the last half hour.

"Manwë, what have I done?"

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><p><em><strong>Translations:<strong>_

(I have a hench book on Sindarin now, can you tell?)

_Gwador – _brother

_Novaer, Dannalas; ion-nín_ – Farewell, Dannalas, my son

_Gîl-nín bannen. Ardhon-nín no morn_. – My star has gone. My world is dark.

_Aran-gín, herdir_ – Your king, Master.

_Gwandagnir_ – kinslayer (contracted so it sounds nice)

_Aldan _– not again

Daro! – Stop!

_Lasdo an ním! [Lasto an nín]_ – Listen to me!

_Erio a maetho!_ – Stand [lit rise] and fight!

_Baw!_ – No

_Rim henniad_ – Many thanks


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Sorry for the long wait, guys. A-levels, forgotten plots, new arcs, the need of more research and a general feeling of 'I can't write well; why do I bother?' got in the way of posting for a long time. (Can I just say that writing fics set in wartime is very hard when whenever you type the word 'army' you think Loki...)

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><p>Thranduil glared around him at the Noldorin healers and wounded, refusing to answer any questions asked of him. (Elrond had tried the conventional approach of asking where Thranduil hurt but, after consistently receiving no answers, he had resorted to the unorthodox technique of poking his patient and tending the places that made him wince.) One question in particular – why did you charge before the order was given? - seemed to be a favourite of the equally harassed soldiers around him. The Sinda felt small and somewhat out of his depth. The tear tracks on his face didn't help his façade of a confident king despite all the odds, and he was sure the Noldor were judging or laughing at him. And then there was the dull ache in his chest; Galion's betrayal. He hated being made an invalid at the best of times but this; stabbing kin in the back was what happened in the old lays of the West, not here and now.<p>

Once Elrond had tightly bound his chest – "Don't move unless absolutely necessary" – and had moved on to the more superficial wounds, they were paid a visit by an anxious Gil-Galad. His distress made him seem like any other solider camped in this Valar-forsaken face. His expression stirred dark memories in Thranduil's mind but he tried his best to ignore them. Upon spying Thranduil he moved in front of him, knelt down and placed his hand over Thranduil's smaller one. His eyes were full of pity and Thranduil found himself trusting the Noldo despite everything.

"You have my sincerest condolences in this dark hour," the High-King told him. Grey eyes gazed earnestly into blue ones as though Gil-Galad was trying to read Thranduil's thoughts. Such things made the Sinda uneasy, so he brought memories from the last time Gil-Galad had been this distressed to the forefront of his mind to make Gil-Galad get out of his head. But Gil-Galad couldn't read minds and all Thranduil did was scare himself further. "I wish to speak to you further about what we should do next, but first I must ask you if you know where Amdír is."

"Why?" The Sinda's voice buzzed in his fractured nose.

Gil-Galad looked down for a second and bared his teeth in frustration. This was war; why must the Sindar be given reasons for every question posed to them? But when he looked back his expression was controlled again, "His army seems to have disappeared. Not one of his men has made the camp yet, whereas all of yours are here in… in one form or another."

Thranduil's expression didn't change, and the Sinda didn't move for a long time. Gil-Galad stared him out, despite the cramp building in his already aching legs. He wondered what was taking the younger Elf so long to answer; in fact Thranduil had quite forgotten about Amdír and his army and now he'd been reminded new concerns for them flooded through him. But eventually he answered:

"He was pushed back into the marshes." Gil-Galad closed his eyes and breathed out slowly. "We were in front of them, separated by flank upon flank of the enemy; I know nothing more about it."

Gil-Galad nodded and stood up. "Thank you," he said in a stage whisper. "Take some time to recuperate, but you must come to my tent as soon as you can. We have urgent matters to discuss." He saluted the new king before leaving.

Thranduil watched him go icily. "He wants my army," he muttered, "but I will not fight for him again. Especially not now my father martyred himself so that we might march under our own colours."

"That's how you see what's happened?" Elrond asked, surprised.

Thranduil transferred his glare onto the healer: "It's part of what's happened."

oOo

"Maybe he'll forgive you," Erestor said soothingly to Galion, "You are as close as brothers after all."

Galion shook his head, "That makes what I've done all the worse. How can he pretend nothing happened?"

"But people act strangely in war. You have jeopardised his very existence by lashing out at him so."

Galion buried his head in his hands, "You aren't helping."

"What I mean to say is he's a good person; he'll see that any harm he does to you could be your undoing. You can't seriously think he wants you dead."

"No, I do not think that," Galion murmured, "but that would be a rational take on the situation."

The two Elves were sitting on a boulder overlooking the main thoroughfare through the makeshift camp. They had their backs to the Black Gates, but such things were not so easily put out of mind.

A short while later Thranduil came into view. Even Erestor, who both saw and brought out the best in people, had to admit Thranduil's expression wasn't one of forgiveness. It was one of defiant anger, one who thought himself lesser than the leaders around him but was damned if he was going to succumb to them. Similar expressions had started the greatest and most terrible deeds of the Eldar Days; such expressions were dangerous. His gate was one of pain; he rocked from one leg to the other as though maimed. But he sent withering stares in the direction of any and all persons who looked at him strangely.

"He'll get his own back," Galion said, glumly, "he'll think of something."

One of the Númenorians stopped the Sinda with the best of intentions. He could see the anguish in the Elf's expression and imparted news that would have cheered anyone else slightly. "Have heart, herdir; the greater part of the enemy's forces are vanquished and we have incurred far fewer losses than he has."

Galion, who unlike the Man could pick up Thranduil's minute warning twitches, groaned on his behalf. Thranduil slowly rounded on him. Though his speed was dictated by the movement of his cracked ribs, this slowness in fact increased the tension in those moments of silence before Thranduil's reply. He looked the Man up and down, a sneer forming on his lips.

"Yes," he said, his voice quiet and deadly, "and if you took away all the Silvan dead you would have lost hardly anyone at all." The Man swallowed and Galion felt infinitely sorry for him. But he was also egging his gwador on. Other people in the vicinity had stopped what they were doing when they heard Thranduil's venomous tones and were now listening in. The Man swallowed and held his hands up in apology. Thranduil paid this no heed, "My king and half his army is dead and Amdír's _whole_ army has disappeared off the face of the earth, but so long as you and your precious mortals are intact that's all that matters. After all, we are just dogs who refuse to bow down to our betters. We deserve to be mown down. Maybe if we'd listened rather than being so bone headed we wouldn't be in this mess. Maybe this is a just retribution for our stupidity. I don't need you telling me not to worry or to have a heart. How dare you tell me how to feel? Well, if you can advise me on personal emotions then let me advise you; the next time we engage the enemy beware friendly fire.

"And that goes for the rest of you," he continued, turning round to face the gathered crowd. Though his voice was still low on account of his injuries it carried far, "we may not be as noble or as well-equipped as the rest of you but we matter. Know how many lie now in filth and darkness fighting for your freedom as much as their own. Know how many people are maimed for life because of what has happened here. And we shall not go down in history. We shall not be in the songs which will be sung from Gondor to Arnor. I'm not saying you aren't suffering as much as we are - war is war no matter where you're standing – but I _am _telling you to acknowledge and respect us now, because no one else will."

"He's exaggerating," Galion said as Thranduil took his swaying leave, "he always exaggerates when angry."

"We all do," Erestor reminded him. "I would stay out of his way for the time being."

oOo

Thranduil held onto the pole sweeping up past his head and looked at the interior of the tent. Not much had been put out yet, just a desk, a map, a tattered banner and a chair which just a few hours previously had belonged to his father. These were all to Thranduil's left. The right side of the tent was reserved for Amdír. Thranduil closed his eyes; this tent was to nearly all intents and purposes useless. Vanity on the Sindarin kings' part. If Gil-Galad and Elendil had a throne room then so would they. Was throne room the right phrase? Or did throne tent fit better? He opened his eyes again when he realised he was waiting for someone who would never arrive. Where were the Lothlórien royals? Advice he needed from Amdír and a friendly smile from Amroth. Amroth was always smiling, but then he was an eternal optimist.

He let go of the pole and meandered towards the chair. He brushed it with the tips of his fingers, walked round it, tried to feel his father's presence. Nothing. If anything made him realise the void he had to fill it was this empty seat. He couldn't bring himself to sit down, even though he so wanted to. To sit on this chair was to acknowledge that he was in charge. He couldn't govern a kingdom or an army; he could barely govern himself sometimes.

He stood there in silence for a long time, postponing the inevitable. But, though he was filled with sadness, he didn't cry. He was too angry to cry.

Eventually, he was brought out of his stillness by the appearance of Círdan. Though he made no sound Thranduil knew he was coming, and he bowed to him as he came into view. There wasn't a person among the Allies who didn't respect Círdan, and as far as the Elves of Beleriand were concerned they owed their lives to him. But he never drew attention to or boasted about the things he'd achieved; he just carried on. There was always more to do. Thranduil moved out from behind his father's chair and looked down at the ground just before Círdan's feet, but the older Elf told him to look up.

"We are equals now," he said in his calm yet commanding voice. Thranduil noticed for the first time the cushion he was holding in his hands. It was made of burgundy velvet and, though it had been kept out of sight until now, it hadn't escaped the black dust that was everywhere.

But it wasn't this cushion that held the king's attention. It was he ring upon it. A ring he knew instantly; he had seen it many thousands of times before on his father's finger. The emerald represented the Silvan Elves and the silver it was set into was the Sindarin lords who ruled and protected them. The silver was tarnished now, showing that no matter the hardships the Sindar belonged to their Silvan kin now and wouldn't abandon them. That's what the elements of the ring were supposed to mean, but all Thranduil saw in it was responsibility.

"I have been asked to give this to you," Círdan told him. "Under the circumstances it seemed crass for Gil-Galad or Elendil to do this. You know what it is?"

Thranduil wanted to snap at the shipwright. _Of course I know what it is! It was my father's ring; I was there when it was given to him. Why wouldn't I know?_ But instead he just said "I do."

"You understand that to wear this ring will be considered the same as wearing the crown of Eryn Galen until such a time as you can be officially crowned?"

"I do," Thranduil repeated. He looked at Círdan with confused, slightly suspicious eyes. "Why are you doing all this?"

Círdan smiled, "To let you know that we recognise and respect your power. We heard about your outburst earlier and it concerned us. It told us we aren't all on the same page, and I am sure you are as eager to remedy that as we are." He had moved the cushion closer to Thranduil as he spoke, so now the ring was well within his reach. But still Thranduil didn't immediately take it. He looked at it for a short while, then looked up at Círdan once more:

"You talk so smoothly. Are you trying to manipulate me? To bring me under your power without my realising it until it's too late."

Círdan tried to keep his cool façade but couldn't. He lowered the cushion with a huff and raised an eyebrow at the younger Sinda the way a grandfather might at his grandchild. Even though Thranduil wasn't of noble birth and had no place in the songs of the First Age, he was a Sindar and so Círdan felt warmth towards him. There were precious few Sindar left now. "You are being paranoid," he told him. "Everyone in the Allied forces is aiming for the same goal, but while we're all taking different routes to get there we can't fully work together. And that's what I want, what I've always wanted; cooperation." He took two small steps towards Thranduil. "I understand if you can't trust the Noldor and the Men but that doesn't make it impossible to work with them. They are noble races, both of them, and the deeds of yesteryear are in the far distant past."

"I can't forget them," Thranduil stated, then faltered, "apart from those forty-odd years…"

Círdan waited, but Thranduil didn't elaborate so he continued: "I'm not asking you to forget them. I'm asking you to accept them and to move on." He raised the ring on its cushion again, "So let's move on one stage at a time."

Hesitantly, Thranduil took the ring and put it on his right index finger. The same finger Oropher had worn it on. It was loose on him but still caught on his lower knuckle.

"Cuio Thranduil Elaran anann," Círdan said, as Thranduil rotated his hand and looked at the ring again now it was on his finger. "Now, I'm going to ask for a promise from you." Thranduil looked up at him, questioningly. "I'm going to ask you not to hide yourself away from the world, not until this war is over at least. And I ask that you make an effort to work with Gil-Galad and Elendil and not against them. Will you do that?"

"Yes, herdir."

Círdan narrowed his eyes and watched the other from under his eyelids. "Make sure you do; I shall be watching." He turned to go, but as he reached the threshold Thranduil asked:

"Why are you being so kind to me? All the free world knows you and loves you and I am no more than a name and now a title to all outside Eryn Galen. So why do you bother with me?"

"You sell yourself short," Círdan said, smiling, "true you aren't known throughout the world but what does that matter so long as you're known and respected throughout your realm." Then he laughed, "As for being kind; break that promise and you'll find me far less amiable."

It was only once Círdan had left that Thranduil sank for the first time into his father's chair. He put his hands flat together and looked at the rings on his finger. The clean gold body of his wedding ring* set off the dark silver of his ring of sovereignty and vice versa. Oropher, who'd also had a golden wedding ring and had worn both on the same finger, had made sure neither eclipsed the other.

_How can two bands of metal sum up so much? Thranduil, this is your life. _

He hadn't had time to think about home recently but now sickness for both the forest and his wife stabbed him like a cruel scimitar. He shouldn't be here. She shouldn't be forced to wait for him. He suddenly felt painfully alone. It took him a while to realise why. Míriel couldn't have been here with him while Círdan swore him in but someone else should have been.

The first thought he had about Galion was a memory from many years ago. It wasn't a spectacular memory – in fact nothing much had happened on that day – but it stuck with him. He didn't know why. They were by a small mere, all six of them. His wife, Galion, Galion's wife and their two children, and himself of course. That was all there was to it; the adults just sat on the bank while Dannalas and Lianna splashed water at each other and laughed. Maybe it was something to do with the late summer light filtering just so through the leaves that made it so special. Maybe it was the temperature, just right so that it felt like there was no air at all. Maybe it was the stillness of the moment. Or maybe it was because it could never happen again.

Thranduil rapidly blinked away the tears. He couldn't succumb to his emotions again, not yet. He had justice to execute.

oOo

The gas in the marsh water made it smell and taste repugnant. Amroth spat it out and wretched for good measure. Then he proceeded to drag is sodden body out of the dip onto reasonably dry land. The cotton o his garments had absorbed the water like a sponge and dragging his legs through the marsh was like dragging two lead weights. Once he'd made the bank he pulled off his boots and let the water go back to where it belonged. Then he wrang himself out and wondered what to do next.

Amdír was dead. That was old news. He could mourn later. Mourning wouldn't help him now. Neither would worrying about the gash on his hip which he'd got trying to protect his father. He'd done very little however; the orcs had just pushed him backwards into the marsh. Look for his army. That sounded like a plan. He pulled himself to his feet and wiped his face, looking at the slimy, stinking weed now on his hand with detached objectivity. Judging by what felt like wet ropes slapping his face, it was all over his hair too. He made his slow way over to the bank.

He was by no means the first to arrive there. Palandir was already directing other survivors off the marshes, but he bowed to his new king.

"So many bodies," Amroth stated as he reached the bank and looked back over the misty green expanse. The glint of armour and weapons was everywhere, even in this dim light. Palandir nodded wearily and Amroth put a hand on his shoulder. "Keep up the good work, meldir, I shall return shortly."

"Where are you going?"

"To find the rest of the Alliance."

Palandir blinked, "But surely your army will need to go with you-"

"No." Amroth's denial was louder than he'd intended. But he didn't care; he was sore and soaking and had to endure the sight of half his comrades slowly sinking into the murky depths of the marsh. "We aren't going back. This is us finished. I'm going to tell Gil-Galad, Elendil and Oropher that we're leaving and when I get back we'll start the march home. We've sacrificed more than enough already. I don't care what they say; there's more to life than pride."

Palandir nodded again, "I agree, sire, but what shall we do with the dead? With your father?"

Amroth waved his hand, "We're taking my father home. As for the rest I leave them to you. Tell the survivors where I'm going lest they think I'm dead as well."

He turned away and began the march through the main battle field to the camp miles beyond. And this time, when the eternal optimist looked at the clouds, all else he saw was banks and banks of yet more clouds behind them.

* * *

><p><strong>Translations:<strong>

_Cuio Thranduil Elaran anann _– Long live Elvenking Thranduil

_Herdir _– master

*from Tolkien Gateway: Elven Life-cycles. Elves wore their wedding ring(s) - I think they could have more than one depending on how rich their spouse was probably - on their index finger rather than ring finger. It doesn't specify which hand.

A/N: Worth waiting for? Hopefully.

I need to write a lighter story sometime soon; Thranduil's becoming more and more like how I imagine the Fëanorians to be. (Not so much in this chapter but in later ones you might see what I mean.) Or more like Thingol (I was about to roll my eyes and say 'because Thingol and the Fëanorians are so similar' but actually they are). At least Thingol's _almost_ allowed considering Tolkien wrote the Elenking's first appearances with Thingol in mind and not Thranduil. But actually why should I write something lighter? (coughs even though I deleted most of those stories for other reasons) I've written plenty of stuff where Thranduil's his usual impish, slightly eccentric self so why shouldn't I look into his more sinister side for a change? ;¬ ) Maybe Eli should take her head out of the YT/FA legendaerum for a little while...

And apparently I've moved to Iceland. Avoiding the Olympics; nice one, me. Even though the only foreign country I've actually been to this year is Wales ;) It'll probably be back to normal by the time you read this but for the moment I'm enjoying this mix up in a strange 'oh look it's happened to me now. Raina! We both have the wrong flags!' way


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Again sorry for the gap. I don't know why there was a gap really but there was so yeah, I shall go and hide somewhere away from your judging eyes. Having said that I didn't expect to be publishing anything while Camp NaNo was on but seeing as I'm now finishing this for camp the whole publishing thing is back on the road. XD

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><p>Thranduil half walked, half lurched through the camp. He'd spent the past few days in his tent, urging the pain in his torso whenever he moved to subside and gazing at the ring on his finger with dejected resignation. He hadn't allowed himself to fully recognise what his wearing that ring of rule meant, only that he was in charge now and therefore it was his duty to get as many of his men through this as possible. Had he not had cracked ribs and bruises on various parts of his body, he would have been up and about these past 48 hours, directing the construction of a temporary camp, raising the Elves' moral as best he could and generally showing that he was a person to trust and to follow. But where had he been in reality? Stuck in his tent, and now even though he walked abroad his stride was hardly graceful. He looked as broken as his men did, and as he steeled himself to rise to this occasion and be the ruler he had to be, he had convinced himself that the person who landed him in this situation would have to be paid in kind.<p>

It was in this foul mood that Gil-Galad found him, and sensing the Sinda's short temper Gil-Galad proceeded with caution: "Good morrow, Herdir. It pleases me to see you walk abroad."

Thranduil wield round and stared the Noldo straight in the eye. He said nothing.

"I was wondering," Gil-Galad continued with practiced nonchalance, "if you had thought over what I said to you during your few days of solitude. It is my sincere belief that it would be better for all concerned if you came under my flag. Surely you must be able to see that an army with one leader will function better than several merely working together. While we have made a great advancement on the enemy in this battle there is still more work to do, and lives would be lost needlessly if we continue to have to compromise in every endeavour."

"I knew you would ask for my army sooner or later," Thranduil said with no hint of a smile. In fact his expression was ferocious.

"This is no light undertaking I can assure you. You have a fine army, though vastly depleted in numbers, with many skilled warriors."

"Mae, and they march for their king and for no one else."

"Just think of the army Sauron would face if mine and yours became one."

"With my Elves at the forefront, clearing the way for your valiant Noldor to sweep in and make history," Thranduil spat, "After all what is a few Sindar and Silvan lives compared to another Noldorin triumph?"

"You put evil words into my mouth," Gil-Galad reprimanded, making a great effort to remain calm, "and have you not followed Noldorin command in war before?"

"Mae, herdir, I have. And I do not recall what happened, though I recall the other terrors the First Age showed me; so what does that say about Noldorin leadership?"

Gil-Galad took a deep breath: "So what do you say to my supreme command?"

"O ha, puion. I would join with Amdír but I will not surrender to you."

Gil-Galad watched Thranduil go, both insulted and saddened. "So be it," he said to himself.

If Thranduil hadn't been livid before, he was now. As luck would have it, he quickly spied Rîneglan turning a scrap of a rabbit over a fire on a makeshift spit. The sight reminded him that he was painfully hungry, but food could wait. He marched over to Rîneglan as best he could while still trying not to move his ribcage any more than absolutely necessary.

"Galion, where is he?" He barked, weighing up the sharp stab of pain that would be caused against keeping his voice at its usual volume. He chose the latter and hid his wince as best he could.

Rîneglan rose and bowed to his new king, "It is good to see you up and about once more, Sire. We were beginning to worry about you, what with your retreat into your tent and all. They say you were badly hurt after the battle…"

"Ambushed," Thranduil answered abruptly, "by yrch. But I asked you a question," he said, converting his whisper from that of hidden pain to an imposing, impatient hiss. Rîneglan swallowed the rest of his advice and pointed over to one of the tents in the far distance,

"You'll find him in there. He looked dead on his feet when I saw him earlier; he's asleep, I'd imagine."

"That suits me well," Thranduil muttered in reply and swept off as best he could.

There was nothing in the tent except for Galion; no blankets on the ground or food stores or anything. Just the black dust ringed round by the once white canvas of the tent. Thranduil assessed the situation and almost smiled. Galion was close to the tent's entrance which was useful; it gave less room for errors and this plan could so easily go awry. He stood there for a while and then backtracked, making sure Rîneglan saw him apparently returning to his tent. But then Thranduil looked round and went unnoticed round the back of Galion's tent.

His heart was pounding and there was a thin sheen of sweat on his palms but he had to do this. It wouldn't get out of hand if he did it right, and if he did nothing his anger would keep bubbling inside of him until it erupted and hurt someone who was innocent in this. His trust had been betrayed and he had been in genuine fear of his life. And now if the enemy attacked the camp he would be handicapped. He had to show Galion what that felt like.

_Don't think, just act. _

He took hold of one of the torches rammed into the rocky ground and yanked it up. His wounded ribs jarred and he had to grit his teeth to stop himself dropping the burning torch. He looked down and closed his eyes, refusing to make a sound. The sense of someone watching him made him open his eyes again slightly and look to his right. There, in the distance, was a solitary figure. A filthy-looking Noldo with holes in his clothes and wide eyes. When he saw Thranduil looking at him, he shook his head and began to run towards the Sinda. The king panicked but when he looked again the figure had disappeared. So once the pain had eased to its usual mixture of dull aches and occasional shooting pains, he stepped up and touched the lit fuel to the tinder-dry canvas. It caught almost immediately and quickly a hole had appeared with rapidly expanding charred edges. He stepped slightly first to the right, then to the left and made two more rings of fire at the back of the tent. The wind blew from behind him, blowing the smoke inside the tent. That was good, less room for a disaster.

He replaced the torch in the ground and walked away, expression apathetic.

In Galion's fitful dream, he was on a tightrope above a lake of lava. He was half way across but the rope sagged more and more with each step he took. Sweat beaded on his forehead but he knew without having to turn round and look that going back was impossible. Silent figures waited on the rocky shelf behind him, and he knew instinctively that they were more dangerous than the solitary figure he was making his way towards now. He wasn't sure if this figure was friend or foe. Maybe he had been a friend once but Galion had done him some ill. That was when he noticed the peg by the figure's foot. Every step Galion took moved the peg slightly more out of its hole. He noticed this, and suddenly he had always known about it, just as he had always known that until recently the toe of the figure's boot had been over it, keeping it in place. But now their foot was beside it, and as it came free and the gap between the lip on the top of the peg and the rock beneath it grew, the boot inched forwards and under it. In a flash, Galion understood what was intended. He panicked and swayed on the rope.

"Please, sir; please have mercy!" He begged. The figure froze and though he couldn't see their face Galion knew they were watching him intently. He licked his parched lips and became aware of a crackling roar which was slowly filling the cavern. He knew the face he couldn't see was anxious, that the figure wanted to care for him… but something made them bitter. "What have I done to offend you? I beg of you tell me! Let me make it right."

The figure paused and cocked its head, considering.

"Tell me who you are at least!" Galion asked the figure. His eyes were sore – was he crying? Or was something in the air irritating them?

The figure raised a sleeve-covered hand and removed its hood. Though he looked nothing like anyone Galion knew in actuality, in his dream he knew who the figure symbolised. The figure's skin was turning a hideous blue-grey, apart from the red wounds which covered all one side of his face and shone as the light from the lava below glinted on the lymph and still wet blood. On the other side of his face, bruises adorned his cheekbones and forehead and shone like purple and yellow flowers. His one working eye was both dead and alive, and saw Galion and stared straight through him at the same time.

"Speak to me," Galion whispered, "Tell me how I have wronged each of you."

But the figure could not speak. It just stared. Whatever colour its eye actually was Galion saw it as black.

"This isn't my fault," Galion whispered. He had said this just to say something, but now that he had he was certain that this was true. "This isn't my fault!" He shouted, "None of this; how can it have been? How dare you point the finger at me? This isn't fair! This is cruel!"

The recognisable side of the figure's face showed emotion now. His mouth opened slightly and his face fell slack in childlike scared confusion. The depths of his remaining eye asked for a warm embrace, someone to come and tell him it would be alright, and kindly spoken answers. And then came the question. _Will you hold my hand? Why isn't anyone holding my hand? Is there no one left? _

Galion shook his head vigorously from side to side, not caring that he was swinging on the rope because of it: "Don't look like that. Please don't give me that look."

The figure looked heartbroken, its appearance flicking now from one person it represented to the other and back again too quickly for the eye to follow. It bent down and gripped the peg in its hand, then looked up at Galion one last time. It didn't want to do it. But something told it it had to. Galion just stood on the rope, no longer moving. His hand hung limply by his side, his face the picture of misery. The figure looked at the peg again as though it wasn't quite sure what it was. And Galion watched. He had thought that this figure was indomitable, that it needed nothing and no one in whatever kind of life it had. But he was wrong. He had thought it would always endure, but now he knew that was false too. It could fall as easily as he could, as he was about to.

"I shouldn't have brought you here," he said, his voice barely audible now over the crackling roar, "but I could never resist your pleading eyes. I didn't intend to leave you, not for one moment, but battles never go according to plan. I played my part, but your death was not my fault. It was no one's fault.

"And I stabbed you in the back. I took your trust for granted, you who trusts almost no one. I forgot your fears and I worsened them, but I will make amends. Let me make amends.

"You don't have to do this, either of you."

The figure stopped, fingers still brushing the top of the peg. But this time it didn't look at Galion again before it pulled the peg out completely and threw it into the lake. It seemed distraught as the peg arched and finally came to rest on the lava's surface, but it had done it. And Galion was falling now, into the lava. He couldn't breathe.

He woke up spluttering and coughing. He could hear the crackling roar more clearly now, along with cries of "Ruin! Ruin!" Confused, Galion pulled himself up onto one elbow and dissolved into another fit of coughing as dense smoke swept into his lungs. He blinked and for the first time took note of his surroundings. He couldn't take them in. The canvas was close to disintegrating, creating a circle of fire all around the dozy Elf. The wooden poles holding the tent up were aflame as well by now. And it became evident that the people surrounding the tent were unaware that it was occupied, so he'd have to get himself out.

So he scrambled to his feet and ran towards the entrance, not allowing himself to think about the flames before. Surprise graced the faces of all gathered around as Galion appeared, coughing and spluttering and hair on fire. He dropped and rolled on the ground in an effort to put himself out as the other Elves began pulling down the tent so it didn't set others alight. Galion lay on his back, more shaken than he seemed outwardly. Who would have done such a thing? Maybe it had been the enemy, or maybe it was an accident. But a niggling feeling in the back of his mind refused to go away. He slowly realised he knew exactly who was responsible. And when he realised who was missing in the crowd he had no doubt. His expression hardened and he pushed himself to his feet. The smell of burning hair reached his nose as still smoking strands hung limply around his face.

With a long stride he left the burnt out remains of the tent and set off across the camp. Some Elves looked to his passing but most were more intrigued by the narrowly-averted tragedy.

Thranduil looked up as Galion entered his tent, his expression neutral. Galion could do nothing but stare at his friend for a long while.

"I was going to ask for your forgiveness," he finally managed, "I was going to lie on the ground before your feet and pledge my life to you. Needless to say I shan't be doing anything of the kind now."

Thranduil didn't deny his involvement in the fire that had threatened Galion's life. "I was repaying your actions," he stated, "I knew you would get out in time."

"You _hoped _I would get out in time. You could have killed me."

"And the injuries I sustained at your hand?" Thranduil said, his tone icy and authoritative now, "If the enemy storm the camp I will not be able to defend myself. If they kill me it shall be because of you. So you will fill the gap. You will stand there beside me and you will watch my back, seeing as you have rendered me incapable of doing so."

"I shall do no such thing-"

"I am your king!" Thranduil hissed, standing up despite the jab of pain it caused, "You will do as I say."

"You are my king?" Galion repeated, "Is that what you are to me first and foremost now? We used to be brothers; we used to look out for each other because we cared."

"You have only yourself to blame for this animosity," Thranduil said quietly yet powerfully.

"That was true," Galion replied, equally sure of himself, "until you set fire to my tent. Your first act as king, have you thought of that? And my I say what a truly fantastic king you are turning out to be."

A twitch told Thranduil that Galion was about to leave, so he quickly said: "Get out of my sight."

Galion saw what Thranduil was trying to do and the corner of his mouth turned up in a sneer. But part of him recognised the deep-set anxiety that had fuelled the order, and that part of him wanted to forget the feud that was brewing and comfort his friend. But he quashed that desire and strode away, derisive smile still on his face.

Thranduil stood looking out into the camp for a long while, but eventually returned to his chair. He rested his chin in his hand and scowled into the middle distance. He didn't hear someone else entering the tent and jolted when they spoke:

"Things haven't gone my way; I've messed up and now I'm angry… I know what; I'll set fire to something. That'll solve everything. I trust it was just as ineffective as last time?"

It was the scruffy Noldo who had started running towards him earlier but had disappeared. He was leaning on one of the tent poles, arms folded and eyes glinting friendlily despite the chiding tone of his voice. Now that the Sinda was looking – well staring – at him he gave the king the once over and his smile broadened into a quiet grin.

"Look at you," he said, almost reverently, "you're all grown up."

Shaken out of his surprise, Thranduil leapt up, drew Nimlhach and pointed it at the other's chest. The Noldo glanced at the sword and tutted,

"Really, Eldu; I would appreciate it if you didn't point my own sword at me."

Genuine fear was in the Sinda's eyes now, and he stared at the Noldo as though trying to see into his very soul. The Noldo remained calm, unperturbed by the intense gaze directed at him.

"What did you call me?" Thranduil whispered, his voice higher than it had been even when shouting at Galion, "And how dare you call this blade yours? This belonged to Nenros, my teacher and a great Elf."

"Lore, don't you recognise me?" The Noldo said with a slight tone of surprise. "I am he."

Thranduil couldn't hold Nimlhach up any longer. His arm fell slack at his side: "You're dead."

Nenros winced, "All a lie, I'm afraid. I had, and still have, my reasons for letting the world think me dead. I dwell now with Círdan under a different name, though you, penneth, are worth the risk that made me hide from you for an Age."

"But…" Thranduil stammered, his voice suddenly very small, "why suddenly appear now? When the world is all upside down again why make things even stranger?"

Nenros took a step towards Thranduil and winced again, this time sympathetically. "You may not know this but I made a promise to your father long ago. I promised him that if there ever came a time when he could look after you I would if I could. And now that time has come. After all he did for me the least I can do is honour our promise."

Thranduil made no response. Contrary to what Nenros thought he had known about this promise. It was made on the plains a short way from the banks of the Sirion when Thranduil was a young elfling. Doriath lay in ruins behind them and Nenros and Oropher sat up on watch duty. Thranduil, wrapped up in blankets with his head in his father's lap, pretended to be asleep. But even though his pretence was working the adults talked so quietly that the elfling had to strain his ears to hear them over the wind in the long grass. Their words were in essence what Nenros had just told him, and they had put the fear in him. But he couldn't respond, couldn't wrap his arms tightly around his father and make sure he didn't go anywhere, because then they would know he had been listening. And that would worry Ada, and Ada was worried enough already. So he had kept still and had fretted for years. All through his childhood the thought was at the back of his mind, and then when the kinslayers came back he thought _this is it. This is when I lose him._ But he had never told his father, and he wasn't about to tell Nenros now all these years later when it was finally true.

When he came back to himself he saw Nenros looking at him slightly concerned. When the Noldo spoke again it was on a more sombre note: "I'm guessing you've had a spat with Galion. He is one of your closest friends and allies and in this world you need to keep them close. Don't burn all your bridges or you'll turn round one day to find them all completely gone and you'll be on an island all alone."

"I don't want to be alone," Thranduil whispered. He closed his eyes for a long time, and when he opened them again he found that Nenros had left. He fought against his heaving breath and doubled over with the pain this caused. Kneeling in the dirt, arms clutching his ribcage, he thought about who he had left. "Amdír," he whispered aloud, "Amdír will come, and Amroth. They will come and they will stay by my side. They won't leave me."

At that moment, an exhausted Amroth was standing in Gil-Galad and Elendil's tent, methodically explaining to them why he intended to turn back to Lothlórien as soon as possible.

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><p>AN: Well that's another chapter that ended sooner than I expected but not by much. I think I'll still end where I wanted to in the next chapter, and after that at the moment there'll be another chapter which will be the last. There _might _be two though; we'll have to see.

And a thing happened today; I got my A2 results and I've been given a place at my first choice university! Lancaster to do Linguistics. I'm so happy! Only my wisdom teeth are making my face hurt something rotten so I need to take some painkiller now.

**Translations:**

_O ha, puion_ – I spit on it (lit: At it I spit)


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: For some reason I found this chapter hard to write. It was written in a fair few sittings so I hope it flows. Actually that's a lie; I wrote the vast majortiy of it just now but wrote quickly so even so. Maybe I should have listened to the _Spirit: Stallion of the Cimarron _soundtrack from the off. Haha I have no shame, but imo it's one of the best albums to write Tolkien fanfiction to. Maybe it's because the song I've linked to Thranduil is in this sountrack. I link songs to characters, often with no rhyme or reason. For example I always think of Thingol whilst listening to _Stairway to Heaven_. Why? No idea.

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><p>One could cut the air in the tent shared by the High Elvenking and the King of Númenor with a knife.<p>

"We understand, Amroth," Gil-Galad said, slowly. Elendil shifted in his chair and cast a sideways glance at his sons. Elrond refolded his hands in the shadows of the tent. Amroth, standing at the tent's centre and in full view of all present, felt like an animal in a trap. But a trap of his own making. "We would rather that you stayed," Gil-Galad continued, "but if your mind is made up then there is nothing _we _here assembled can do or say to sway you."

"Hannon le, aranhîr," Amroth said in a small voice, bowing slightly as he spoke, "for being so understanding.

Gil-Galad's mouth twisted slightly. "Of course we are not fully representative of the allies here."

"No-"

"You will have to tell the Greenwood elves yourself, without our backing."

"Yes…" Amroth fell into silence. He had hoped that once he had the other kings on side, they would help him convince Oropher. But evidently that was not to be. Gil-Galad wanted him to stay; why would he help him leave.

Gil-Galad watched the emotions flitting across Amroth's face with interest: "You didn't think abandoning your fellows mid campaign was going to be easy?"

"I didn't think about it," Amroth admitted, running his hand through his hair and pulling a fistful of moss and weeds out of it. "This was a spur of the moment decision. All I know is that my father's- _my_ Elves shouldn't stay here a moment longer."

"None of us are here by choice," Elendil said, sternly. "What you and your men are experiencing is no different to what the rest of us are dealing with. Take the coward's way out if you must but rest assured it shan't be much easier."

Amroth looked at the Númenorian king, then took a deep breath and pulled himself up to his full 5'8; "Rulers of grand kingdoms you may be, and your families may stretch back into the heyday of the world. But we three are all kings without liege lord. And I resent being talked down to like some foot soldier or commoner. I alone have command over my army, and I have decided we leave."

"Such an attitude would suite this siege well," Elendil remarked.

Gil-Galad raised his hands. "Behold we are going round in circles. I suggest you take your decision to a fresh audience, Amroth; and see if they can shed any new light on matters."

As he spoke the light from the entrance was blocked as someone entered. Gil-Galad looked up and smiled. "My lord Círdan; how fares our absent colleague?"

"He was civil enough to me but to all else his mood is toxic. He awaits news of Amdír." Círdan noticed Amroth for the first time, shivering despite the heat and covered in drying marsh detritus. "Am I to believe it is not good news?"

"Not entirely," Gil-Galad affirmed. Then to Amroth, he said "You should probably tell him sooner rather than later."

Amroth nodded and reluctantly left.

"This should be interesting," Anárion said under his breath. But Gil-Galad still heard him.

"You are _not_ turning this into a game."

Elendil smiled, but there was no humour in his eyes: "You already have, my friend. You neglected to tell him who he'll be facing."

"You mean he hasn't… heard," Gil-Galad's brow furrowed and Anárion and Elrond slipped away to watch proceedings at closer quarters.

oOo

"It is with sincere regret" Amroth rehearsed as he made his way through the camp, "that I must turn back. But my mind is set, herdir; I cannot afford to lose any more men.

"'Of course, Amroth,'" he said, mimicking Oropher's measured yet authoritative voice, "'a king must look to the needs of his people. But may I remind you that there isn't an army here that hasn't sustained heavy losses.'

"Indeed, sire…" Amroth faltered, "But the morale of my Elves has waned considerably due to their ordeal in the marshes. If they were to stay here they would drop like flies, even without fighting. It would be a terrible waste of life, even in this war."

In Amroth's mind's eye, Oropher steepled his fingers and thought for a while, "'I understand your reasoning, so I wish you good speed back across the grasslands. We cannot aid your return home. One thing I will ask though is that any of your Elves who wish to stay _do _stay here, under my command.'

"Of course, sire." Amroth bowed and tripped over a guy rope, "and thank you for your understanding."

And that is indeed what would have been said had Oropher still been alive.

He was outside the tent now. He paused and took a deep breath, wondering if his shadow could be seen on its canvas walls. Then he stepped up, knocked on one of the supporting posts and entered. He saw who was there. He felt like he'd been punched in the stomach.

_No no no no no…_

Both princes looked at each other, knew in an instant what had happened.

"I'm sorry for your loss," they said in unison. Both were genuinely heartbroken to hear of the other's father's death, but Amroth was about to add insult to injury. Telling Oropher he could handle; the Sinda would be angry but he'd be rational and predictable. Amroth had no idea what Thranduil would do.

But he probably wouldn't be throwing heavy objects his way.

"You're wincing."

Thranduil smiled, though like most smiles in this place it didn't reach his eyes: "A gift from an orc who wasn't as dead as I thought. Come, sit. I would offer you my chair but… I suppose they're bringing yours. Where's your army?"

"Some way behind," Amroth choked. He needed some time to think about how to phrase what he was going to say but Thranduil was so relieved to see him that he was giving Amroth no time to breathe.

"We must start making plans, not just about the enemy but about Gil-Galad. Has he tried to relieve you of your army? That was the first thing he said to me. Come, sit down, sit down. The ground won't kill you… probably won't kill you. Oh! No, before you settle would you get that map from behind me there? All the movement from earlier is finally catching up with me."

With feet of lead, Amroth moved to pick up the map. He didn't dare look at his companion. Something had happened, Amroth didn't know what and didn't want to find out, and that something had made Thranduil desperate for allies. But Amroth wouldn't give in. He pictured the faces of his army, pulling themselves out of the marsh then turning round and seeing their fallen comrades. They turned to him, their broken spirits bleeding into their eyes. _We don't have to stay here, do we? _

"I'm not staying." A murmur under the crackle of dry parchment as he handed the map over. But Thranduil heard it anyway.

"There are too many things to be doing, aren't there?" Thranduil replied, consciously misunderstanding the meaning behind the words as he was unable to believe their true meaning. He unrolled the map on his knees and tried to find the location of the camp from what he could remember of their surroundings. Rocks, rocks and more rocks. No trees, no whispering breeze, no laughing Elflings, no father's stories. Ever again. No, don't think about that. "If you're busy this can wait 'til later."

"No, Thranduil," Amroth spoke with more force this time. He clasped his hands together and dug his nails into his palm in an effort to keep the tremor out of his voice: "I'm not staying. I'm leaving. I'm taking my army home."

No longer able to feign ignorance, Thranduil lifted his gaze from the map and looked into Amroth's face with utter astonishment. "You're what?" He breathed. Then as he replayed the words in his mind his expression became deeply sad, and then furious. When he spoke again his voice was a hurried monotone with the momentum of a gathering storm. "You can't leave! Think about it; you on the plains, trying to sleep and then on the east wind you hear the screams of those you abandoned as the darkness swamps them at last, and you awake and you know it's coming after you now and there's no one left to protect you because you gave up on all those you care about when the real world began to bite. _This _is the real world, Amroth. It is cruel. It is filled with death and grief and pain. And the only way any of us are going to survive is if we stick together."

"You're wrong," Amroth replied, not missing a beat. Something old had returned in this tent, something Thranduil didn't recognise but Amroth knew well. Something both of them had thought dead a long time ago; "This isn't the real world; this is the interlude. The real world is a place of peace and light and laughter, and sometimes things like this happen and we all have to decide for ourselves how we will get the light back. And this darkness eats you; it worms its way into your soul and eats you from the inside out. So when you finally see it your insides are rotten. And once its made your soul its home you can never be fully rid of it, no matter what you do. It is dark tendrils encircling the heart. And it's in you; it's been dormant for so long but now you're here it's moving and it will eat your soul again. And if I stay here it will get inside me and there will be no one left to save the others. I have to leave; I will just rot here."

"But the rest of us 'rotting' as you put it that's fine, is it? Just so long as you get back to your precious forest with your precious golden leaves and singing air. Well what happens when we fall? Rotting we may be but we are also fighting. Sauron is almost vanquished; this is the deep breath before the last push. If you stay here and push with the rest of us there is more chance that we will all survive to see light and goodness again. And if you leave what then? How will you defend yourself should we fail? The whole brunt of the darkness of Mordor will sweep across the free lands and smother you in despair and misery. And you will die alone because we will all have died here."

"I can't stay here; I can't do this. I've never done this before-"

"Neither have I-"

"Yes you have! And so have Círdan and Gil-Galad, and Elendil is close in their council. You may not remember it but it's there, deep down, and it's influencing your decisions. I don't have anything like that. I had no influence last time and I wasn't part of this world long enough to find my feet. But I saw enough of this to know that it's the last place I want to be. You didn't see my people, my brothers and sisters, pulling themselves out of the marsh water freezing cold and soaking wet and distraught. They are broken, Thranduil. Half of them lie dead in the marsh. Those that still live are fading even as they await my return. To bring them into camp would sentence them all to death."

"Only half lie dead?" Thranduil's eyes smoked as he looked at Amroth. He hated Amroth then, but not only because he was leaving. He hated him more because he was getting out, taking the path Thranduil yearned so much to take. He wanted to take his father home, see his woods, his wife, pretend this hadn't happened. But the fear of the guilt of leaving, and of facing the darkness alone kept him here. But Amroth had made his choice and was keeping firm. And even though it wasn't the choice Thranduil would make, and even though it meant everyone else would have to work that bit harder, he admired him. Somehow.

"I'm leaving once my army is ready to move," Amroth said again.

When Thranduil spoke again his voice had dropped away. Amroth had to strain to hear him: "Leave now and I will never forgive you. With my dying breath I shall curse you. Your nightmares were sent by me."

"We are equals, and we have made our decisions. So-"

"Get out."

"Wha-"

"If you're leaving, get out."

Amroth swallowed, felt 3 inches high. He moved to the tent's entrance. When in the doorway he turned. "Is there anything I can do for you?"

Thranduil opened his mouth to spit a retort, but thought better of it. "Take my maimed soldiers home. And Dannalas and my father. But you are not welcome at their funerals. Run, run as fast as you can, and hide, like you hid last time."

"Good luck." Barely a whisper. The words seemed so empty.

Thranduil leant back in his chair and looked through Amroth. "You might see me again," he said, "but chances are I shan't see you."

Amroth wanted so desperately to say something, but there was nothing to say. He looked at his old friend for a while longer, at the ancient soldier slowly taking the whimsical Elf over again, and then left him. His army needed him more than anyone else did.

He walked without seeing where he was going. He was trembling, and despite the dry heat that cloaked this area he felt cold. Chilled to the bone.

"Are you still leaving then?"

It was Gil-Galad, fatherly concern on his face. Behind him were Elrond and Anárion, both surprised that Amroth was uninjured and both highly relieved. Amroth looked at him with betrayed eyes.

"You didn't tell me Oropher was dead."

"I honestly thought you knew-"

"You didn't tell me!" Tears he didn't know he'd been holding back ran down his cheeks. He pressed his fist into his mouth until he could speak again: "Is this what it's like? Is this what it's _always _like?"

"War always poses challenges."

"I'm abandoning my kinsmen. One of my closest friends hates me, and I'm just walking away. How has this happened? How have we fallen so low? Why do we sing about battles as though they are valiant, as though they are noble? They aren't! They are dark pits of despair where we slowly tear each other to pieces."

"It's because we have hearts," Gil-Galad said, sombrely, "it's because we who know love and compassion are fighting creatures that don't. They force us to make choices no one should have to make."

"I can't do this," Amroth said, and pre-empting Gil-Galad he added, "but you can't have my army. Those who wish to stay will fight under Thranduil's banner, if he'll have them. And I have a favour to do him which is none of your concern. I take my leave to organise it."

Gil-Galad, Elrond and Anárion watched as the new king marched off through the camp. They all knew his summery of war was accurate, but they also knew there was nothing they could do to change it.

A week or so later found the Greenwood Elves lining their section of the camp, heads bowed. Many were in tears. A small portion of Amroth's forces had come up to camp to bear the maimed and the dead king back home. There were no flowers to throw in their path, no flags whole enough to fly at half-mast. But all there saw them in their mind's eye. On the rises all around were the vast majority of Gil-Galad's and Elendil's armies. Come to pay homage but not wishing to intrude. The Wood-elves knew they were there and silently thanked them. Among Thranduil's people were a few hundred of Amroth's who had taken up the offer to stay. They were neither blamed for their king's decision nor praised for staying.

This was the funeral Oropher's army gave him. Later it was this procession that was told in tales of the first king's life, rather than the more serene yet arguably less poignant burial under the tree Oropher had chosen when the shadows first began to gather again.

Thranduil walked behind his father's litter. He had tried to wash but with little success. The dust had embedded itself into his very skin. His hair, cut relatively short, stuck out at odd angles. He wore his armour, for they were still at risk of attack, which was blood-stained and in places had sections of leather hacked off. But to his people he looked as grand as any king of old. It was his expression that gave him his presence; pained but resolute. He kept his chin up but his eyes were cast to the ground. Until he neared the end of the processional route where the path began to slope down and away to the marshes. There he looked up and saw a dark figure towards the end of the crowd.

Galion had thought about walking behind his son but found it too hard. So he stood at the front of the crowd, watching as the procession passed, trying to forget who was part of it. He nodded to the maimed who were conscious, wishing them a safe journey home and a swift recovery. He looked at his son as his litter was carried reverently past, but he had already said his good-byes. This was just the end. He would never see his son's face again, save in pictures. He blinked and it was as though a dam burst. Galion buried his face in his hands, wanted the world to disappear, wanted a sympathetic arm across his shoulder. What had he done? Why had he done it? He'd known it wouldn't bring his son back; all it had done was make him alone.

But there was a hand. On his upper arm. The thumb brushing his tunic. There was someone standing close by, in front of him. He lifted his face and there was the person he'd hoped it would be. Galion's tears had set Thranduil off, but even so he was trying to soothe his friend. His gwador. Galion hadn't realised his grief hand made him tense until the relieved surprise of Thranduil's reappearance after nine days' absence made him smile despite everything. He hadn't been abandoned after all. All was forgiven. And he was being invited to share the anguish with someone who truly cared. He wrapped his arms around Thranduil and buried his face in his friend's hair. He could feel the Sinda's tears running down Thranduil's face. They held each other upright as the last of the procession past.

As the rest of the camp wished the king swift passage through Mandos' Halls in almost inaudible voices and drifted back to what passed as normal life, master and servant remained where they were. So long as they stayed here Dannalas and Oropher were still alive. When they finally moved, they would be turning their backs on their deceased loved ones. They would be that bit more alone.

"Don't leave me."

"I won't leave you."


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: I'm not even going to bother apologising for the gap because urgh; it always happens. But here it is! The end! Finally haha. (The end of this story; not of my writing. I have a lot of ideas but like I keep saying I'll finish them before I publish them. I really will this time!) Thank you all of you who've stayed with me for staying with me; I'm sure there are many authors out there who post every week but what can I say? I'm never going to be like that. ;)

I wrote about 1,000 words of this a while ago and then slotted it into here. I think it's obvious cause it's better written than the rest -.-

Also: Normally I'd reread a chapter like 2 or 3 days later before posting but I'm in Wales for a week from tomorrow and really wanted to put this up so please forgive any typos and tell me about them so I can fix them when I'm home. Also I am not sorry for skimming over the 'he hit him and then he back-stabbed this other guy' aspects of the battle; I can't write them and they don't interest me.

* * *

><p>"Sire!"<p>

Both Thranduil and Galion turned round at Rîneglan's shout.

"Sire," Rîneglan repeated as he ran up to them; "they've been gone too long."

"Who have?"

Rîneglan leant on his spear. "The search party, sire. Eight days as opposed to the three they planned."

Thranduil pursed his lips and nodded brusquely: "Bring them back."

Rîneglan bowed but didn't move. "Sire, do you know if there are any spare swords around? Mine was broken in the last skirmish and is yet to be fixed."

Thranduil watched him for a while. Rîneglan was suddenly afraid; over the years they had been camped out here the ditsy prince had slowly changed into a decisive if flighty king. Which side you spoke to at any given time was almost completely unpredictable. Even so, on this occasion Rîneglan cast his eyes to the ground and braced himself for a chiding for asking Thranduil inane questions.

But instead of hard words there was the clinking of armour, and then something was held out to Rîneglan. The Elf looked up. Thranduil's sword was inches away from his face.

"I… I can't take that."

Thranduil's face was still set: "Why not? It's not like I'm offering you Aranrúth. And besides you hold its partner in your hand."

Rîneglan looked up the shaft of his spear to the white-silver spear-head. It and the sword matched.

"You need a sword," Thranduil continued, "And I for the moment do not. Call it an incentive to return before morning."

"Sire, I can't-"

"Do as I say."

"But Thranduil,"

"Rîneglan-"

"But-"

"Rîneglan stop tal-"

"I can't take-"

"Are you listening?"

"Yes I can't take this"

"Do as your king commands!"

Thranduil had pulled rank. The debate was over.

"I remember when you were knee-high to a Dwarf, and at night you lay curled up against your father sucking your thumb 'cause you were scared of the dark," Rîneglan muttered. Thranduil just arched an eyebrow.

"Come back before sunrise tomorrow. And good luck."

"You sucked your thumb?" Galion asked as Rîneglan finally took the sword and went to organise a search party.

"It was the end of the First Age; everyone was scared of everything."

"Worse than this?"

Thranduil pondered as he and Galion watched Elrond roll a barrel of something from one side of the camp to the other.

"Elrond!" Thranduil called as the Half-Elf lifted the barrel over a particularly jagged patch of ground: "What have you got in there?"

"Dead people."

"I don't believe you," Thranduil replied, walking over to Elrond who glared at the Sinda and opened the barrel. Thranduil walked back soon afterwards.

"Dead people," he confirmed to Galion. "Well, parts of dead people."

"I'm going to be sick…" Galion muttered, covering his mouth with his hand and trying to calm his breathing.

"I always wondered what was done with the parts that went missing during battle."

"Darooo!" Galion moaned through his fingers.

"You aren't looking so well, gwador; maybe you should have a lie down."

The look Galion gave Thranduil then would have stunned birds in the tree tops. "If we weren't both Elves you'd be dead by now," he muttered as he made to follow Thranduil's advice.

Thranduil gazed after him with a strange look in his eyes; "That hasn't stopped people before."

oOo

Darkness had fallen, not that there was much difference between day and night before Mordor anyway. Not compared with the brightness of day in the free realms the Allies were fighting for. Galion wondered if the sunlight would dazzle him for a while when they returned home. If they returned…

No, thoughts like that were dangerous. What mattered was the here and now, and the continuing containment of the dark forces before the final push to rid the world of them forever.

Having fallen into Elven dreams when he went to lie down, Galion decided to get up now and check the camp. The fires which burned along the main pathways and around the camp's perimeter were bright enough for him to see any potential dangers. And it was slightly cooler at night. Many people stayed up through the dark hours, and he knew where he would find one of them…

Galion climbed with a dexterity which came from familiarity rather than sure-footedness. The terrain here defied even Elven feet. At the top of the small outcrop sat Thranduil, one leg tucked up by his chest, the other stretched out down the black rocks. He looked with resigned indifference at the panorama before him, the warm yet cruel wind teasing his hair out to one side. Not that there was much of it to tease. Ever since he had been forced to do so, and had therefore discovered the merits of short hair both on the battle field and in the dusty air of this place, he kept it cut so close to his head that it barely covered his ears. Galion fancied he would shave it all off if it weren't for his vanity. Galion's own raven hair would melt into the dark rocks when battle finally came but a blond head would be easily seen. Even so, Galion made a note to cut his own hair short again; for Thranduil to do so meant the king thought a large force was moving out there in that vast expanse of red and black. Finally moving, after many years of silence, broken only by small skirmishes here and there. Long hair could be grabbed in battle, pulled to debilitate its owner. Yes; Galion would take a knife to his soon enough, though it grieved him to do it.

"It's a place of death; this country," He said as he drew level with his friend and settled down next to him, "I can imagine no place worse."

Thranduil shot him a sideways glance and gave a twisted smile; both knew that Thranduil had managed to avoid that question during the day. But answered now: "I've experienced worse, I think. Not that I remember, not really; but when I feel the frustration of the siege, the fear that we will never see home again, I know that I have felt these things before. But we have a home to return to. The realms behind us live still, for the moment, and that gives our presence here real meaning and makes it that bit more bearable."

Galion hugged his knees, "It has been seven years, hasn't it."

"It has," Thranduil stated, sombrely.

"They are long since buried."

No need to ask who 'they' were: "They are indeed."

Galion looked at his king's profile. He seemed older than he had when they set out for this place, far older than he had when he first arrived in Greenwood. Galion could barely believe it was the same person. But then he was sure he had changed as well. To the untrained eye, Thranduil's face seemed emotionless, but Galion caught the slight twitch in his cheek and knew what it meant. A twitch he would have missed seven years ago, let alone understood. Despite everything he smiled.

"I'm glad we stayed," he said, softly.

Thranduil turned to regard him," I'm sorry?" That small smile again: "Have you taken leave of your senses?"

"I'm glad you didn't turn us around and have us march back to safety with Amroth. He sits in Lórien, gaining nothing but lines of worry as others defend his kingdom as well as theirs. But not those of us who are here. It is true that war destroys ties of friendship, but it also strengthens them. When we arrived I called you gwador, nothing less but nothing more. But now that doesn't seem to fit. No matter what you say to the contrary, I know you inside and out now, and I fancy it is the same with you. Sworn brothers no longer seems enough to describe us."

Thranduil was looking at him oddly; there was laughter in his smile now and in his eyes. Galion didn't think he'd seen Thranduil laugh since Oropher died, and his own elation couldn't be hidden. His grin made Thranduil voice his thoughts: "My dear Galion, do not tell me you have forgotten the Laws along with your wits."

Galion slapped him, chidingly, "Who said love of a certain strength could be nothing but romantic? I love you as a brother, no, as a twin. I can't describe it, but I know you understand. It is like the bond between gwador and gwador only ten-fold, one hundred-fold, infinitely stronger-" He faltered, but Thranduil picked up in a voice lower and softer than the one Galion's consternation has caused.

"It is the bond obtained through long years of learning and understanding the other, through betrayal and forgiveness, from being forced to rely on the other and know that they also rely on you. It can be found only in times of deepest distress; when you sit at the end of the world with them and know that in the fight to come you will do anything to prolong their life, even by just a few minutes. And when the fight is over, if it be lost you will weep with no one else but them, and if it be won you will celebrate with them always at your side."

"It shall not end there," Galion, who knew when Thranduil was finished, for the same sentiment was indeed in his heart, followed on with barely a break. "When we ride home I shall be at your shoulder, and when we arrive, like a second shadow I shall ever be at your side, so much so that you will grow weary of me. But imprison me or exile me I will not be shaken off. I shall follow you like a dog until the end of days."

"Then," Thranduil said, his voice ringing strong with mirth, "we shall be found sitting in some otherwise deserted place unmoving, each waiting for the other to move to do something so he can follow."

"Until Míriel orders you to do something."

"And then we shall both follow her as one being and she will wonder if some dark magic has rendered us inseparable."

Their laughter sounded strange in this joyless land.

"Nay," Galion said when he had recovered himself, "you have your wife yet, and I my daughter; we shall not follow each other all the day. But your pain shall ever be my pain, your trials my trials, your triumph my triumph."

"So shall it be with me."

They fell silent then and Galion watched Thranduil watching him. Thranduil was smiling softly, and though it was filled with this nameless love he had for his gwador, it was also filled with sadness. Galion's own expression became sombre. "He really is coming now, isn't he?"

Thranduil nodded: "Yes, my dear Galion, he really is."

"I will follow you until the very last."

"I know."

oOo

"Look! Down by the camp. Rîneglan has returned!"

Galion blinked and followed Thranduil's gaze. The dawn light was slowly creeping up the valley. It would lose hope before it reached Barad Dûr and Orodruin but it would bring some life to the camp. And twinkling in its rays was a silver-white spear, with a tattered green and gold banner tied about its shaft.

"They're carrying people," Galion said, craning his neck. But Thranduil had already leapt up and was half running half sliding down the slope. He was the fastest thing moving in the still waking camp. Men, trying in vain to keep the grit out of their meals, muttered into their beards and cloaks at the dust the Sinda kicked up, and muttered more loudly when Galion's passing had the same effect. The fine powder at the entrance to the camp made them both skid as they tried to stop. Rîneglan tried to smile:

"I didn't realise you would be _this _keen to get your sword back, sire."

Thranduil sent him a withering glance and he sobered up. "We found half of those who left, sire."

"Half… what happened?"

"The same thing that always happens; they were ambushed."

Thranduil and Galion stepped aside to let the tired and wounded pass. Most were standing, if leaning on their companions for support, but one was not.

"Mithras…" Galion murmured as the Silvan lord was borne past them. His lower left arm had disappeared in red fabric.

"They say he was trying to retrieve Lindor's body from the orcs," Rîneglan said quietly.

Thranduil shook his head: "Lindor should have gone back with Amroth; he should not have been here. He was never a soldier."

Rîneglan handed back Thranduil's sword and licked his lips. "Maybe we should turn back."

The look Thranduil and Galion gave him was disbelieving.

"I have been besieging dark strongholds for almost fifty years," Rîneglan stated, not backing down. "Fifty years I will never get back. Men have been born, had children of their own and died in that time and I've just been… sat in some Valar-forsaken corner of the world."

"You are not the only one-"

"But I _remember _it. I remember all of it; the darkening of hearts, the depletion of allies one by one, the wasting of potential. Thranduil; I ask you to make a move. Either attack Sauron as he skulks in his tower, or give me permission to lead any like-minded Elves home." Up 'til now his expression had been flat, but now it broke and he looked on the verge of tears. "I'm so tired. I just want to stop, to rest. I'm so tired."

Thranduil had been ready to unleash all his frustrations on the Elf who voiced them, but he found he couldn't. Instead his free hand was on Rîneglan's shoulder, and he looked up into his friend's honey-coloured eyes.

"I shall ask Gil-Galad to begin the final push."

"Why? Why must you ask him? Can you not act on your own?"

"I could, but then none of us would see home again. Do not be deceived; the Dark Lord has been weakened, but his orcs are cunning, and he has something no number of soldiers can overcome."

Rîneglan blinked.

"This ring of his," Thranduil continued, "it is potent magic. Even Celebrimbor feared it, said his forbears would have turned and run before it. Sauron may not be stronger than Morgoth was, but he is more determined I think. And he does not fear us; we need the fear the Old Money puts in his mind."

Rîneglan swallowed and nodded. Thranduil gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze. "If you'll excuse me, I need to speak with Gil-Galad."

He walked away, and Galion followed.

"You made that part up!" A voice called from across the camp. Thranduil turned and saw the voice's owner sat outside one of the tents. "They would have run from nothing."

Thranduil smiled. "It calmed Rîneglan though, didn't it?"

"What was that?" Galion asked.

"Nothing."

"Have you checked that sword's clean?" Nenros asked. "It's expensive; you should take better care of it."

Thranduil flicked his head and kept walking. But outside Gil-Galad and Elendil's tent he passed the sword to Galion.

"Some things should have no audience," he said; "so while I talk to the Noldor's king would you clean this for me."

Galion looked disappointed at being turned away but did as asked.

Happily, both Elendil and Gil-Galad were in the tent when Thranduil was invited in. They looked at him in surprise; even though he was yet to be crowned Thranduil was already known as the king who disappears.

"Please tell us how you manage to avoid us for weeks on end in a relatively small place." Gil-Galad said, smiling.

"I stay where I am needed. If you never venture into my Elves' part of the camp then you shall never find me," was Thranduil's terse reply.

"And you rarely venture into ours," Gil-Galad countered.

Thranduil tilted his head in acknowledgement of the reply.

"So, what brings you here, master Sinda?"

Thranduil's gaze flicked round the tent. Though he hadn't been inside it for a while little had changed. Same maps on the small table, same greying banners staked in the ground outside the entrance. Nothing changed here, it just rotted.

"My Elves are growing restless. They wish the siege to end; they wish for the last battle in this war."

"Do they think we would have been camped here this long if the time for fighting was right?" Elendil's voice boomed around the space, his eyes narrowing at the insult he read into the Sinda's words. "Do they think we sit out here for nothing more than sport."

"Men gain nothing here but growth," Gil-Galad said, much more quietly, "And Elves do not even gain that." Then, turning to Thranduil he said: "Tell your men we shall be readying over the next few weeks. It is not only strength of body that we need to do this deed but strength of mind."

Thranduil bowed, shallowly as they were all kings here, and thanked Gil-Galad politely, and Elendil even more politely. As he turned to leave, Gil-Galad said: "Just before you came Elrond was called away to treat one of your men, I think. Something about a severed arm…"

Thranduil turned back round: "This Elf is known to me. I shall check on him now." He dipped his head again and left.

oOo

A small crowd had gathered around Elrond while he worked. He wasn't finding comments like 'Is that bone? Lore! Poor thing! Will he be able to use his hand again? All that blood!' helpful, but no matter how often he shooed people away more came to take their place. Thranduil had to shoulder his way through to crouch at Mithras' other side. He said nothing, just watched as Elrond methodically cleaned the wound and worked out what it was he was dealing with.

"An orc scimitar did this," he said eventually. Thranduil let out a breath he hadn't realised he was holding. "It's cut right through the muscle, tendons, ligaments and a fair bit of the bone on one side. It's a miracle he didn't bleed to death."

"What can you do?"

"Well," Elrond said, rocking back on his haunches; "what I'd do if I were back in Imladris and what I can do out here are two separate things. Because of where the wound is it is likely if not certain that he has lost most movement in his hand, and I don't know how well the bone and muscle will heal." He looked up at Thranduil. "It's a messy cut, and it's been left untended for a long while. I've cleaned it, which was quite a job in itself, and bound it but there isn't much more I can do." He stood and Thranduil followed him. A few paces away Elrond extended his hands. "They should be covered in blood, but they aren't. There's no blood flow around the wound, which means it may never heal. I may have to remove the hand." He laughed strangely at Thranduil's shocked face. "We'll wait and see, and even if I do it wouldn't be the end of the world." As he walked away he began laughing, and when he tried to stop the laughter it just got worse. He held up a hand: "I'm sorry, it's not funny."

Thranduil had already turned back to Mithras, who was lying white and motionless on the array of blankets that passed for bedding in this late stage of the war. He sat their watching him for a long time. But eventually duty called him away.

oOo

One of his Elves ran up to Thranduil and skidded into a kneeling position in the dust. He took his king's hand and kissed the ring on his finger. "Thank you, sire."

Thranduil managed a half smile, which seemed enough for the Silvan who got to his feet and hurriedly finished getting ready. But Thranduil lacked his men's enthusiasm.

The day of the final push. He had been up well before dawn to watch what he could of the sunrise, just in case it was his last, but like everything around here it was blood red and grey. He shared Rîneglan's wish, he realised. He didn't want to fight; he just wanted to go home, to see his wife, to cry on her shoulder over all that had happened here.

Isildur had begun the day for his men by giving them a rousing speech. At first he was speaking to terrified men and boys, barely able to stand for the shaking in their legs. By the end the crowd acted as a single beast possessed. The older Elves were giving them all a wide berth. Thranduil realised he was expected to give a similarly rousing performance, but if he was honest he felt more comfortable with the current state of affairs; his men giving rousing speeches to him. If their hearts were heavy no number of 'inspiring' words would make them fight at their best.

"Sire!"

It was Galion, and Thranduil knew what he wanted. With a heavy heart he went to don his armour. Leather and maille. Someone had offered him plate armour but he'd found it too heavy, too restricting. Though he had to admit, Gil-Galad and Elendil and his sons looked very well marching round the camp dressed in metal almost from head to foot. He hadn't managed to find Elrond, so once he'd got into his armour and helped Galion into his he continued his search. Eventually he found him engaged in an argument with Mithras. Even though his indeed useless left hand was still in a sling Mithras was adamant that he would fight by his king's side. Elrond was equally adamant that he wouldn't.

Thranduil watched the exchange with interest for a while before joining: "I would have thought you'd be all for Mithras fighting, Master Elrond."

Elrond whirled round. "He has had no practice! Even with an arm just out of action let alone one which is as good as dead your centre of gravity changes dramatically. You can't stabilise yourself while fighting; you have to learn how to do it all over again."

"How much training do you think some of the men in Elendil's army have had?"

"I think they are all competent soldiers now that we've all been stuck here for so long."

Mithras had no reply to that. But before Elrond could deliver the killer blow Thranduil stepped in: "If he wishes to fight to protect those he loves then I say let him, Elrond."

Elrond eyed the Sinda with suspicion: "And he wants to protect you, I suppose."

"I wish to avenge Lindor's death!" Mithras said, emphatically; "We were a strange pair, admittedly, but we were always there for each other. But then two weeks ago I let him down, and now he's dead." He looked between his two companions. "I can't walk away from his memory."

Elrond met Thranduil's steady yet resolute gaze. He licked his cracked lips. "Alright, though this goes against my wishes."

"Ask Galion to help you with your armour, Mithras," Thranduil said, "And I'll see you shortly."

Mithras bowed and left. Neither Thranduil or Elrond moved though. They were still staring at each other.

"You are stubborn," Elrond said eventually, "Unbelievably stubborn. In any other circumstances I would call it impressive, but here it is foolish."

"It is what will get my Elves and me through this fight. It is what has saved you from idiotic decisions on more than one occasion. And what of you? Anyone who thinks differently from you is wrong and needs to be 'corrected'."

"I am a healer. I see things as they truly are. My viewpoint is usually the best considered."

Silence.

"If you die," Elrond said, "it'll prove me right. You'll die because you'll refuse to move out of an orc's way, even though it is sure to kill you."

"If _you _die, it will prove that you aren't as objective as you claim to be. You'll see a gap and will it to be big enough even though it really isn't."

"You won't move out of the orc's way, even though you know you stare death in the face, because someone you love has been wounded behind you. And you refuse to leave them, because you know that if someone is with them to bring them back to camp afterwards they might survive-"

"You'll will that gap to be larger, because you've seen someone in trouble, and you'll do anything you can to save them. Not for any greater good, but because they mean the world to you. And you'll run towards them, and the gap will close and you know you should turn back but you'll keep running and calling their name, and they'll hear you and know you're coming so they'll keep fighting-"

"But then the orc will cut you down and kill them anyway-"

"But then the gap will close and all there will be before you is leering orc faces-"

"And that is how you will die."

The last sentence was said in unison. And they fell silent again.

"You're crying."

"So are you."

They stepped forward at the same time, flung their arms around each other and didn't want to let go.

oOo

"Why are we right on the phalanx?

"I don't know."

"We're so vulnerable out here."

"Well this is where we are so hush and deal with it."

"Ada?"

"Mae?"

"I'm scared."

"I know. So am I"

Thranduil tried to block out the conversation going on five Elves to the left and three lines behind him. He didn't know why he was focusing on that conversation, other than that one of the voices was young.

Too young.

His army would hold the northern side of the field, making sure none of the enemy broke and ran and then swept back behind the Alliance. He was very far away from Gil-Galad, and suddenly he too was afraid.

"Galion?"

The reply came from right by his right shoulder: "Thranduil?"

Thranduil smiled: "Just making sure you were still there."

It was a long front line, sweeping like a wave across the barren plain before the slopes of Barad Dûr. No one could see it in its entirety. Thranduil wasn't sure if this gave him strength or increased his fear.

Much further down the line, Elrond was having similar thoughts.

But then it began.

The enemy hit the centre of the Allies first, crashing against Elendil's men before fanning out and engaging with the whole line. The Wood-Elves curved round like the sting in a scorpion's tale and rained arrows down on the approaching yrch, but all too quickly those on the front line had to draw swords, spears and daggers.

As the battle raged, the formerly tightly packed Elves and Men began to disperse as they were brought down or forced to peel off from the main group. Thranduil regrouped his men time and and time again and swept down from the North, driving the yrch onto the main battlefield to be cut down. Rîneglan was beside him, and the Wood-elves flocked to his spear as the Noldor flocked to Aeglos.

But towards the end of the battle, Elrond had been separated from Gil-Galad, and Thranduil and Galion had been separated from everyone.

Elrond cut through the press of yrch, calling for his king over and over. But he couldn't hear anything over the cacophony of battle. He tried to see over the heads of those around him, even jumping in an attempt to get extra height, but he couldn't see Gil-Galad's helm either. But he kept calling; he would never stop calling. And then, as he began to lose hope, he heard a reply.

"Elrond!"

"Gil-Galad!"

"Elrond!"

He headed towards the noise, not bothering to kill the yrch which he could dodge past. He knew he was nearing the king when the yrch were pressing tighter and tighter. Other Elves were also trying to reach their king, but they were having little more success than Elrond. The yrch pressed so tight that Elrond couldn't even tell if there was anyone with the king or if he fought alone.

A gap.

He ran, struggled, fought his way through.

Failed.

It closed before him. Before he could reach his king.

This wasn't…

He couldn't…

The yrch cackled at him.

He gripped his sword-hilt tighter and tried again.

High above the main battlefield, Thranduil, Galion and a rapidly diminishing band of Elves were trapped some way up the slopes.

"We have to get down!" One of the Silvans shouted.

"Oh really!" Thranduil spat back, unable to keep his sarcasm in check.

"He's right." Galion yelled, half turning whenever he could afford to take his eye off the yrch they were fighting, "We have to go down."

"And that's not what you're attempting? Galion, right now we have to just stay alive. Help will come."

"What if it doesn't?"

"Help will come; we must believe that!"

A particularly tall orc chanced his luck with the king and necked his Noldorin sword. Thranduil grabbed the sword's hilt with both hands and kicked the orc in the stomach. Its body fell back down the hill, taking out a few of the yrch below it.

None of them were using names or titles; each suspected that if just some of these yrch knew who Thranduil was they wouldn't stand a chance. For once Thranduil's worn armour and short stature might just be saving the life of him and those trapped with him.

None of them knew what was happening in the battle proper. They had never got close to Gil-Galad or Elendil and everyone was too busy trying to stay alive to pass messages. But then-

"They're turning back!"

The trapped Elves couldn't believe their eyes. It seemed the battle further round the slopes wasn't going in the Dark Lord's favour, and now the yrch were running south to engage in the main fight there. But even so enough remained to make escape difficult.

"My arms," one of the Silvans said. "I can't feel my arms anymore."

It was the last thing he said.

Another Silvan, stepping backwards, tripped over his newly-fallen body and was cut in half.

Thranduil looked round. Galion was still fighting. He turned back to run his sword through the belly of another orc. When he checked again Galion was on the ground. Blood soaked into his tunic, into the leather of his armour. Thranduil shrieked and hurled himself at the yrch which pressed round Galion's prone form. They backed off. As more and more of them left for the battle on the plains, those that remained were becoming less and less sure of themselves.

"Sire!" One of the few other Elves left standing, a young Silvan who had marched to battle with both his parents but would be marching back home alone, pointed up the mountain: "If we go up we can go around."

But the damage was done. After the first word he had uttered. The yrch's attention was fixed on Thranduil, who stood resolutely over his fallen friend. There was a pause as yrch and elf-king stared each other out.

And then something happened that none of them expected. The Silvan's long curse was covered not by fighting at close quarters, but by the death-screams and despairing shrieks from the far side of the slopes. A fear, deep as the underworld, settled in the Elves' stomachs and a new fire lit their enemies' eyes.

"What's happened?" The Silvan whispered.

"Sauron," Thranduil whispered. "He is come at last."

The yrch surged forward, but Thranduil was ready for them. Had he been fighting for just himself he would have been succumbed, but he fought for Galion, and for the young Silvan whose childhood had ended many years too soon. He felled orcs left and right, but he couldn't fight for ever.

A vicious blade caught his shoulder and he staggered. He fell to the ground next to Galion's head and threw himself over his gwador's unconscious form. The young Silvan joined him and buried his face in Galion's tunic. But Thranduil looked up at his enemy, hissing and spitting like a cornered cat. The yrch pressed forward, going for the kill, but suddenly stopped. Their heads snapped to the right like they were one animal and they started screeching. Scattering. Running for their lives. A wave passed through the air, though what it was none ever truly knew. Its meaning however was clear; Sauron was gone. The orcs had broken ranks and were running in every direction, no longer interested in killing the Elves and Men before them but just in saving their own skins. Those Men and Elves still standing finished most of them off but some escaped into the mountains. The young Silvan dared not move. Thranduil checked that Galion was still breathing before resting his forehead against his friend's and giving himself a few minutes to catch his breath.

oOo

"What can there possibly be to talk about?"

"I don't know, but there are disheartened and wounded men and they are taking counsel amongst themselves and doing nothing."

"Where's the Elvenking?"

"He perished."

"Not Gil-Galad; the Wood-elves' king."

"I… I don't know. I don't think he's been seen since the battle."

Such was the talk of those lucky enough to be on their feet back in the camp. Rîneglan didn't know what to do. Should he try to bring order or should he go to find Thranduil? He sat in the dust, rolling his splintered spear on his knees. He wasn't sure how he'd broken it, but then he could never remember much of battles after the event.

Beyond the camp, a trio of Elves were making their way back across the plains. It had been a long walk, and a slow walk, but it was nearing an end now. The young Silvan was carrying three sets of weapons. Thranduil was carrying Galion. The young Silvan had quite forgotten he was in the company of his king; all he saw at that moment when he looked at his conscious companion was a tired Elf scared for his friend. Trying not to wince as he jostled the wound in his shoulder.

When they neared the northern entrance to the camp, Thranduil finally asked "What's your name?"

"Caledhriw."

"Right; Calenriw, find out what happened and tell me."

"Herdir."

Caledhriw hurried into the camp as Rîneglan looked up. The Sinda saw this young Elf carrying both Thranduil and Galion's swords. He jumped to his feet and walked forward, heart hammering, only to be shouted at by Thranduil for getting in the way. Rîneglan took in the situation quickly before running ahead to get Galion a space with the healers.

Thranduil refused to leave Galion's side. He sat across from his butler as his own wound was tended and then, when Galion was left to recover, he lay down in the narrow space between the two sets of blankets, slipped his hand into Galion's and waited. And while he waited he fell asleep.

No one could rouse him. No matter the number of people who found him upon hearing he had returned, all asking him to step into the shoes of the 'as good as absent' kings and lords and do something to bring order to the camp. Whether he really was asleep through the noise they made or whether he was just pretending to be didn't matter; the fact was he didn't move until Caledhriw returned with his news. There was no mention of the fate of the Ring, for no one had told such a thing to one so unimportant, not even when he said he asked on the king's behalf. But Thranduil did learn of everything else. He listened to the news of Elendil and Anárion's deaths seemingly impassively, but upon hearing that Gil-Galad had also fallen a tear ran down his face and he said something so softly and in such a strong dialect that Caledhriw couldn't understand. And then Thranduil's tears of worry for Galion were finally allowed to fall.

Caledhriw, unsettled, tried to leave, but Thranduil called his name by the time he was half way down the tent.

"Calenriw!"

Caledhriw was about to correct him but remembered who it was just in time: "Sire?"

"Is Elrond alive? And Círdan and Mithras?"

"Yes, yes, sire; they're alive."

"Thank you," Thranduil whispered.

Thranduil stayed by Galion's side for the full three days it took Galion to awaken. Upon coming out of his 'council' with Círdan and Isildur, Elrond when straight to the wounded. He saw Thranduil asleep on the ground next to Galion and assumed the worse. Until Thranduil sat bolt upright, eyes wide, and asked him why he was wailing. Elrond would have accused Thranduil of maliciously tricking him were he not so thankful that the king was still alive. Instead he went over and gave a promising verdict on Galion's wound. It was healing well. He should wake up soon.

A gentle squeeze on Thranduil's hand was enough to bring out of Elven dreams and to reality. Dazed steely-blue eyes gazed back at him.

"Suilad," he whispered.

"Suilad," Galion replied. He smiled, "We both made it."

"Just about."

"How long have I been unconscious."

"About 4 days."

Galion's eyes widened for a second: "4 days!"

"You were badly wounded."

Galion's brow furrowed, "4 days… have you been here all this time?"

"All this time." Thranduil smiled at the elation of Galion's face: "I've been neglectingmy army because of you."

Shock.

"Fear not; Rîneglan has been looking after them for me."

"Then why did you mention it?"

Thranduil laughed because he had no better answer.

"Is it over now?"

"Yes… for now."

"Gwador…"

"Mae?"

"Are we going home now?"

"When the injured can walk or ride horses, yes we are going home. And when we are home please remind me that I owe someone called Caledhriw a few favours."

A slow smile that shone brighter than Eärendil's star.

_I meth_

* * *

><p>AN: I hope that was worth the wait!

I had the common problem in some places that big emotions could be summed up in very few words so I hope it doesn't feel rushed anywhere. But yeah, like I said I'm posting this almost straight away because I won't have my laptop for a week now and now I've written this I can't not publish it for a week ;)

- And the reason why when everything was piling on top of him Thranduil called Caledhriw _Calenriw _is because the mutation of n to dh before r in compound names happens in standard Sindarin but not in the Doriath dialect.

**Translations:**

_Daro(ooo) _– Stop/halt


End file.
